


Everspring

by pixie_rings



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Lord of Spring Jack, M/M, So guys every now and again I write deathfic and make myself cry, why did i do this to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bunnymund is gone, and Jack will not let Spring and Hope die with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everspring

It all happens so fast, Jack isn’t quite sure how.

One minute Bunnymund is there, beside him. They’re fighting, they’ve got each other’s backs, they’re going to get through this. They’ve fought worse, they’ve gotten through worse, as long as they’re together, nothing can take them down…

All it takes is a split-second of distraction on Jack’s part. He feels himself shoved away with an anxious cry of his name. He falls to the ground, hard, his palms are scraped raw, and that’s all he can think of until he turns.

And his world is destroyed.

There’s something long, black and sparkling through Bunnymund’s chest. It’s stained red with the Pooka’s blood, which drips hot to the barren ground. For the longest of moments, all he can do is stare. He’s frozen, eyes wide, barely daring to breathe. The nightmare sand spear dissolves, hissing to the ground, so deadly and beautiful and completely unheeded. Even the air around them is stone still as Bunnymund raises a paw and presses it to himself, his fingers coming away crimson.

Then there is a triumphant snarl, Bunnymund keels sideways and Jack’s free from the spell of his horror. He darts forward across the ground, to Bunnymund, who is on his side, every breath pushing more blood through the hole in his chest. Jack’s kneeling in a scarlet pool, tears running down his cheeks only to freeze before they fall, pulling Bunnymund to him and babbling.

“It’ll be ok, it’ll be ok, stay with me, I love you, _stay with me…_ ”

Bunnymund paw clutches at his arm, Jack gives him his hand and Bunnymund holds it tightly, folding himself into Jack. He already knows. But Jack doesn’t want to know, not just yet. He rips off his hoodie, presses it to the wound, starts to sob uncontrollably. This can’t be happening. This is E. Aster Bunnymund, fiercest of Pooka warriors, last of his kind, his strong and gentle lover. This can’t be happening, not to him, not to _them_.

He barely acknowledges how North roars his rage and pain and launches himself at Pitch. There’s the violent crack of a golden whip and the song of a sharp scimitar, but Jack hardly hears it. All his senses are on Bunnymund. All he can hears is the harsh gasps of faltering breaths. All he can see his green eyes dimming and red everywhere, all over them. All he can feel is the warmth of blood where it isn’t supposed to be, and he tries to commit the soft fur to memory. All he can smell and taste is copper, salt and fear.

He’s terrified.

“L-listen, ice block…”

_No, don’t talk,_ Jack thinks. _Don’t say anything, don’t make it final and finite._

“I love you. Always… always will.”

Bunnymund reaches up with his paw, traces Jack’s face, grazes icy tears with a blunt claw. Jack presses it to his cheek kisses it, heedless of the taste, hypersensitive to leathery pads and short, silky fur, sticky with blood. He can’t lose this. He _can’t_.

“I… I l-love you,” he sobs, squeezing Bunnymund’s wrist enough to bruise. Yes, bruise, it’ll still be there tomorrow, won’t it, because he’s going to be all right, isn’t he?

It’s as if his heart is being torn from his chest when he realises Bunnymund’s grip is lax, and he is not breathing anymore.

He doesn’t care, when an unseasonal blizzard mightier than any the world’s ever seen rages across the continent. He screams out his anguish, his sorrow, his agony, and the elements respond to it, howling and sobbing with him.

For Bunnymund is gone, and all that he loves is gone with him.

.

He can’t bear to be at Bunnymund’s funeral. He can’t think of how his Bringer of Spring will no longer be there. No more banter, no more laughter, no more grumpiness and no more love-making. He can’t bring himself to face the harsh, agonising reality of it. He spends it in the Burrow, in the nest, where the scent of Bunnymund is still heavy and enveloping. It’s all around him, holding him as he sobs, curled up among hay, blankets and pillows.

Once his tears are spent and he has moved to the cold, still desolation of mourning, he holes himself up in the Warren, which is slowly beginning to wither. Jack can feel it. It misses its master as much as he does, he thinks as he wanders through its green depths. It reaches out to him like it never has before, recognizing him as what its master loved most, and Jack reaches back, seeking comfort in the ever-so-slowly dying vegetation.

With every delicate touch of a leaf and gentle stroke of a petal, Jack realises how precious this place is. It is as much home as his lake in Burgess ever was, and more so than even Santoff Claussen. The Warren welcomed him with open arms when Bunnymund brought him here, showed him its wonders.

No, he can’t let this disappear. It has to live on, somehow. He has to do _something_.

Finally, after weeks of self-imposed exile, he emerges. He lets Toothiana fuss over him, he lets North go all paternal and he allows Sandy to give him dreams, dreams that are full of Bunnymund but devoid of the blood and dismay that are there whenever he lays his head down.

That is when he makes his request.

“You… You want to be spring spirit?” North asks, more softly than Jack has ever heard him speak before. Jack nods.

“I… I don’t know if I can be, but I want to try,” he says. His voice is always a broken, hoarse thing, nowadays.

“Why?” Toothiana asks mildly.

“So… So I can keep what Bunny made alive,” Jack replies. “The Warren… it’s dying. I can’t let that happen.” _I can’t let go that easily_ , he does not add.

Because he was prepared to live out the rest of a foreseeable eternity with Bunnymund. They were in love, they were together, and he was sure nothing could ever break that. In fact, he is still sure. What Bunnymund has left, he will preserve. He will be its guardian, its keeper, and though he will mourn for the rest of his immortal days, forever the heartbroken widower, he will still have a part of the one he loved most to turn to.

Though whether the Moon will allow it or not is another matter.

.

Perhaps he will, Jack thinks.

He can feel something in him changing. No longer do his steps leave frost, but the grass grows greener and more vibrant beneath his feet. His touch leaves ferns of a different kind entirely. His staff is entwined with green vines, alive and glorious. And now, at his very core, he is no longer cold. He is a gentle warmth, and he wonders: is this what Bunnymund felt? This sweet feeling of being able to make things live, to breathe new life into the world?

It’s _beautiful_. It brings tears to Jack’s eyes when he finally comes into these powers. When he can make daffodils sprout with a thought and the cherry trees vivid with blossom, he weeps with gratitude and happiness.

He sheds his hoodie for a lighter shirt and a cape of a soft green material, generously offered by North and Toothiana. He is also given Bunnymund’s vambraces.

“They are yours,” North says, and Jack can hear the quiver in the old wizard’s voice. He knows perfectly well that they all lost as much as he did. Bunnymund was their friend as well as his lover, and they had known him far longer. He knows that the amount of time does not matter, that they would never belittle his feelings in such a way, and he hugs both of them tightly.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He tightens the leather straps on his forearms. They are too large, but that doesn’t matter. They fit there anyway, as if they were meant to be. It’s a part of Bunnymund he can carry with him forever, now, something beyond mere memories. He always loved how the boiled leather had worn smooth, how it felt under his touch. He caresses the golden stones, the triangles in relief, and wishes more than ever that they were still where they belong, warm brown on slate grey.

He waits until he is home to cry.

.

The Warren responds to him only tentatively, at first. The life force that flows through it, in every blade of grass and piece of bark, in every stamen, pistil, root and branch, is confused and wary. Yes, this is Jack, the Jack it’s known for years, but this is also different, like it’s master. It is life and fertility and renewal, whereas Jack was always cold and frost and slumber.

However, it slowly warms up to him, helping him grow into his new powers as he helps it grow in turn. It will never be as mighty and verdant as when Bunnymund was alive, but it is enough that it is growing once more. It, too, will mourn for the rest of eternity, as will Jack, and they will grieve together, but Bunnymund… Bunnymund was Hope itself. Bunnymund lived and breathed regeneration and rebirth. He lived for Spring and its changes, and Jack will honour that for the rest of his days. He will turn his grief to Spring, and honour their love every year. His love letter for Bunnymund will be written across the planet in the greens of new buds and the pinks and whites of fresh blossoms, vibrant and magnificent.

This planet will not forget he who gave it its shape and its life, Jack will see to that.

.

“We didn’t see you all winter.”

Jack turns. Jamie is thirty now, and yet still believes. He stands there, hands in his pockets, frowning at Jack’s appearance. Perhaps he is confused by the emptiness in his eyes, or merely his attire, Jack isn’t sure. He straightens, his smile sad where once it would have been mischievous.

“I don’t deal with winter anymore,” he says, and with a wave of his staff, the woods are carpeted with early snowdrops. Jack used to love them because they were the only flowers he ever truly got to see. Bunnymund used to love them because they meant hope. They are link to his lost love, a symbol of a bond that can never be sundered.

Jamie gasps. “But… how come?”

Jack almost cannot bring himself to say. The pain is still too fresh, the wounds too raw and open, and speaking of it makes it unbearably real. If he were to say, he would break down into a sob heap once more.

“Bunny… isn’t here anymore,” he murmurs, and presses a hand to his mouth, his breathing erratic as he fights back tears. Jamie touches his shoulder.

“I… I’m sorry,” he says. Jamie is already thirty, and yet only thirty.

Once again, Jack remembers that they never had enough time.

.

Jack does not mind not being believed in anymore. He does not mind dancing through the sky on a warmer, sweeter Wind, spreading springtime wherever he wanders. It is enough to be doing so in Bunnymund’s memory.

In time, he knows, Bunnymund’s scent will leave him. The traces left of it are barely intelligible even for the sharpest nose, and the thought that no one will recognise him as the winter consort of spring makes a lump rise in his throat and the memory of his loss sharper again. In time, he also knows that the pain will lessen. The memories will not be so painful, the aching void will be an empty shrine, and he will live through it. He will always miss Bunnymund, until the end of the world, and he will never love another, of this he is sure. But he will go on, for new beginnings, Easter and Spring and Hope.

For the one he loved, and always will.

**Author's Note:**

> OH GOD WHY DID I DO THIS WHY OH GOD I HATE MYSELF.


End file.
